Due North
by sasha1600
Summary: In honour of Canada Day... Gibbs and DiNozzo investigate the death of a midshipman during an exchange programme at the Royal Military College. Warning: obnoxious Canadiana, self-deprecating in-jokes.
1. Chapter 1

**Due North**

**Summary:** In honour of Canada Day... Gibbs and DiNozzo investigate the death of a midshipman during an exchange programme at the Royal Military College. **Warning: **Obnoxious Canadiana, self-deprecating in-jokes. Read for a laugh. There's a plot, but not much of one.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own them, I just play with them.

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A/N: The Royal Military College and the US Naval Academy are real places and I don't own them, either. The events in this story are entirely fictional, and I have peopled RMC and the Naval Academy with characters who are the product of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or occurrences is accidental. My apologies to the staff and students of RMC for borrowing their campus as my crime scene; no disrespect is intended.

A lot of creative licence is involved in this story. And I do mean a lot. This would never happen this way. If real-world plausibility is what you look for, this isn't the story for you. I've taken whatever liberties were necessary to put Gibbs and DiNozzo in the situations where I wanted them. Don't flame me about the story being 'unrealistic'.

* * *

Gibbs swept into the bullpen like he always does – like a pilot with a bogey on his six. He dropped his now-empty coffee cup into an already-overflowing trash can and reached under his desk for the small hold-all that he kept there in case of unexpected trips out of town on a case.

'Grab your bag, DiNozzo. We're going to Kingston.'

Tony looked up from the paperwork he was pretending to fill in, a huge grin spreading across his face. He grabbed his own back-pack from the floor behind him, scrambling to his feet and pulling open the desk drawer where he keeps his service weapon when he's in the office.

'Oh, yeah. Ja-mai-ca. Just the thing for February.'

Tony was ebullient. Ziva and McGee both looked expectantly at Gibbs, unsure why they hadn't been invited to gather their things and both feeling a bit hurt that they weren't being included in the trip.

'Nope. Ontario,' Gibbs said with one of his grins.

Tony's face fell. McGee smirked, then openly laughed at the sudden change in Tony's attitude.

'That's in Canada, yes?' asked Ziva, knowing the answer but wanting to rub salt in Tony's disappointment.

'Boss... it's February.'

'So?'

'Canada? In February?'

'You got a problem with that, Agent DiNozzo?'

'No, Boss. Actually, yes, Boss. It's cold. It's snowy. It's... cold. And, why Canada anyway? That's sorta out of our jurisdiction, isn't it? We haven't invaded them, have we?'

'Exchange programme between the US Naval Academy and the Royal Military College. We've got a dead midshipman up there. The Canadians are letting us observe their investigation.'

By now, Gibbs was punching the elevator button and waiting impatiently for the car to arrive, and for his senior agent to get his ass over there.

'Leave the gun, DiNozzo. Unless you're planning to start a war. You said it yourself. We've no jurisdiction to do anything other than observe.'

Tony caught up just as the elevator arrived, juggling his bag and coat.

'Boss, c'mon, can't you take McGee? You might need his... computer skills or something....'

Tony shut up quickly when he saw the expression on Gibbs's face. Ziva and McGee, however, were far enough away to risk shouting after them.

'Hey, Tony, maybe you can get yourself one of those fur hats. I bet you won't even feel the cold in one of those.'

'Yes, and maybe the Mounties will lend you some snowshoes!'

The elevator door closed before Tony could tell them what they could do with their hats, snowshoes and red-tunicked police.


	2. Chapter 2

The two NCIS agents got off the plane at Toronto's Lester B. Pearson International Airport. Tossing their bags over their shoulders, they followed the crowd down long, glass-lined corridors.

'So, who _was_ Lester B. Pearson? I've never heard of him. And what kind of name is Lester, anyway? Who names their kid 'Lester'?'

A hard look from Leroy Jethro Gibbs quickly shut Tony up.

'He was Canada's Prime Minister in the '60s, DiNozzo. Introduced the national health care system and the Maple Leaf flag. Before that he defused the Suez Crisis and invented UN Peacekeepers. Won the Nobel Peace Prize for it.'

'How the hell do you know that?'

'There were Canadians in Kuwait, DiNozzo. Wouldn't shut up about the peacekeepers thing.'

They'd finally arrived at the cavernous customs and immigration hall, where they quickly were admitted to the country. Their Canadian counterparts had made sure that all the necessary paperwork was ready and waiting. Not having luggage to claim, they headed straight to the car-rental place. Paperwork signed, keys in hand, Gibbs marched into the parking lot to find their car. DiNozzo trailed behind him, both their bags slung over his shoulders, shivering and rubbing his hands together.

'You've got to be kidding me.'

Gibbs double-checked the parking-space number he'd been given and compared the licence plate number on the paper in his hand to the one in front of him. There was no question. The bright red... thing... was theirs.

'They gave us half a car?' Tony looked quizzically at Gibbs, then at the car. It did, indeed, appear to be missing its rear end. There was no back seat, and the 'trunk' area was a back hatch about a foot wide.

It was a SmartCar.

Sighing deeply, Gibbs opened the back of the thing and motioned for Tony to put the bags in. Then he got into the driver's seat and waited for the other man to get in beside him. Glaring disdainfully at the satnav system mounted on the dash, he handed Tony a map and the directions he'd been given. Squealing out of the parking lot at his usual speed, Gibbs navigated out of the labyrinthine airport and onto the highway that would take them from the airport to Kingston in a couple of hours.

A short time later, Gibbs pulled off the highway at a rest stop. He dropped DiNozzo at the doorway of the squat brown restaurant building, telling him to get coffee, and steered the weird little car over to the gas pumps under a red canopy. Realising that he had absolutely no idea how many litres he needed for a trip measured in kilometres, he simply filled the tank, swiped his credit card through the machine, and resolved to enjoy watching the guys who processed expense reports deal with this one.

Meanwhile, Tony stood in line in what had to be the biggest donut store he'd ever seen. The walls were covered with photos of kids at summer camps, and even smaller kids looking well-padded in their extensive hockey equipment. Surveying the menu board, Tony quickly decided to pick up a couple of sandwiches since it was nearly lunch-time and he didn't think that Gibbs would want to stop again any time soon. The line moved quickly, and soon he was at the counter, ordering the food and coffee, and deciding to throw in some donut holes for good measure. The teenager in the funny hat and apron moved off to fill the order, and Tony followed her with his eyes for a moment.

He was quickly distracted by the pretty blond standing next to him at the next counter position.

'Large double-double and a small snack-pack of Timbits, please.'

The kid behind the counter obviously understood whatever that meant, returning a moment later with coffee and a funny-looking box with a handle on top. The blond dropped some coins into the kid's hand and walked off, while Tony turned his attention back to his own server who was just returning with two cups stuck into a cardboard tray and a bag of food. Handing over a reassuringly green twenty-dollar bill that he'd acquired from an ATM at the airport, he decided to ask for a translation of the strange order he'd overheard. Satisfied, he shoved his change into his jacket pocket and hurried out to find Gibbs waiting for him.

'Hey, Boss. Got us some sandwiches and Timbits.'

Tony reached across the passenger seat to hand Gibbs the coffees, then clambered in with the bag.

'Tim-whats?'

'Timbits. The donut chain is called Tim Hortons – he was a hockey player by the way – and the donut holes are, well, Timbits.'

Gibbs took a sip of one of the coffees, and quickly exchanged it with the other cup.

'What the hell is that, DiNozzo?'

'A double-double, Boss'

'A what?'

'A double-double. That's Canadian for two creams, two sugars.'

'Mine had better be black.'

'It is, Boss. Don't worry.'

Stowing his cup in the holder and popping a glazed sour cream Timbit into his mouth, Tony braced himself for Gibbs's warp-nine resumption of their road trip.


	3. Chapter 3

As they drove farther from Toronto, the radio station that Tony had found early in the drive sputtered and finally died. Twirling the dial, he found mainly static. He skipped past a talk show about hockey; it was one of the few sports he did not watch. The next station told him that the time was 'a quarter to the hour, a quarter past in Newfoundland'. Huh? Ok.... The one after that was in French. He finally found one playing music, and was pleased that it was a song that he recognised. He left the dial where it was and leaned back in his seat.

'Hey, Boss, it's the lottery song.'

No answer, other than a look that managed to simultaneously question Tony's choice of music and his sanity.

'You know. They use this for lottery commercials.' He started singing along, 'If I had a million dah-ah-llars....'

'The version on the radio is bad enough, DiNozzo.'

'Shutting up, Boss.'

The Barenaked Ladies finished the song unaccompanied.

A sudden Morse code 'SOS' from the radio nearly made the former Marine drive off the road in surprise. The riff was soon joined by a guitar, and the voice of the radio host introducing Great Big Sea's 'Ordinary Day.' Satisfied that his boss wasn't going to kill him with his driving just yet, Tony released his grip on his armrest and broke out into laughter at the expression on Gibbs's face.

'You alright there, Gibbs?'

'Is that supposed to be music?'

'Um, yeah. It's kinda catchy, too. A bit folksy, maybe. But interesting. Maybe we can pick up a CD before we leave. If the band is called 'Great Big Sea', I bet they have a couple of songs about boats....'

Without taking his eyes off the road, Gibbs reached out and smacked Tony on the back of the head, then switched off the radio entirely.

'Oh, come on. They weren't that bad.'

'You want to ride in the back, DiNozzo?'

'There isn't a back, boss.' Tony gestured over his shoulder at the bizarrely close rear window of the little car.

'Uh-huh. And?'

'Shutting up, Boss.'

Fortunately, it was only a short time later that they turned off the highway. With Tony reading out the directions they'd been given, Gibbs navigated the snowy roads at somewhat less than his usual speed. It wasn't long before they arrived at the campus of the Royal Military College. The road trip was over and it was time to start working.


	4. Chapter 4

They sat in the office their Canadian counterparts had obviously borrowed from someone at the College, being briefed on the details of the case.

Gibbs cradled a cup of very good coffee in one hand. His usual caffeine dealer didn't have an outlet nearby, although he had been assured that they did operate in Canada. He made a mental note to remember the steaming-teacup logo from the cup in his hand since the little kiosk in the main College building was apparently part of a chain.

Tony perched on the edge of a chair, balancing a notepad on one knee and twirling a pen between his fingers. He was still trying to get over his surprise at discovering that their investigative counterparts were all Canadian Forces personnel, and not a civilian agency like NCIS was. Gibbs didn't seem at all fazed by it and, after all, it wasn't that unusual – Army CID was still a military unit, he remembered, thinking of Lt.-Col. Mann – but Tony felt a bit self-conscious.

And, of course, he'd tried to cover his discomfort with a smart-ass comment, asking their liaison, who had introduced himself as 'leff-tenant' Daniel Waters, to explain the pronunciation, when there's no 'f' in 'lieutenant.' Gibbs had smacked him upside the head, but Waters had merely laughed, and asked Tony to locate the 'r' in 'colonel'.

Now, the Canadian was giving them a run-down on the situation.

'We run one of these programmes every year,' Lt. Waters explained. 'We've got kids from Westpoint and your Air Force Academy here as well, and the four schools rotate hosting it. They last a couple of weeks. The seminars focus on areas of shared responsibility – co-operation in search-and-rescue situations and disaster relief, commitments to NATO, that kind of thing. And, of course, NORAD, which is a joint command that answers to both the President and the Prime Minister. They have some athletic competitions and military exercises – marksmanship, obstacle courses, races to see which team can dismantle equipment, move it, and put it back together the fastest – and various social activities as well. The goal is building relationships between the next generation of leaders of our two militaries.'

'Have there been any problems?'

'No, nothing serious. There's always some ribbing among the teams. And it's a chance to indulge in some nationalistic rivalry as much as anything else. Midshipman Peters joked about invading Canada a few days ago. He was reminded that, the last time you lot tried that, we burnt the White House. That was about the worst of it.'

'Peters is the one who died?'

'Yes.'

'But you don't think it was retaliation?'

'For a joke? No. Canadians have thicker skins than that – we have to. I certainly don't see any of our students killing over it. I think dinner last night was the extent of the retaliation.'

'Dinner?'

'A couple of our kids persuaded the kitchen staff to serve poutine, told them the Americans should experience some traditional Canadian fare while they're here. From what I've heard, your bunch weren't terribly impressed.'

'Poo-what?'

'Poutine. It's a French-Canadian dish. French fries smothered in cheese curd and gravy.'

'And you wonder why it didn't get rave reviews?'

'It's actually pretty good, if the gravy is decent. But, I'll admit, it looks a bit off-putting.'

'There were no other problems?'

'None that we've heard about. Two nights ago they all went into town together, did a tour of a couple of pubs. It was apparently quite the bonding experience.'

'Wait a minute. Pubs? I thought Peters was only 20? Is everyone else older?'

'Drinking age is 19 in Ontario. Apparently that's one of the highlights of years when the conference is held here.'

'Ya think?'

'Hey, you're the ones who think that that twenty-year-olds are old enough for combat but not old enough to have a beer with their buddies afterwards. Don't blame us if they don't agree.'

'So how many of them were too hung over to participate the next morning?'

'None. Apparently the senior students kept everyone to a two-beer limit.'

'Really.'

'So they say.'

'Alright. Tell us what you know about what happened to Peters.'

'Well, yesterday afternoon was the marksmanship competition. They were just about to start the first round of shooting when Peters collapsed. The medics worked on him for a while, but he was probably dead before he even hit the ground.'

'Cause of death?'

'We won't know until we get the autopsy report, probably tomorrow. There was nothing obvious. No physical trauma. No evidence of poisoning. No known allergies.'

'So, you're telling me that a healthy twenty-year-old midshipman dropped dead for no apparent reason?'

'Until the ME can tell us otherwise, I'm afraid so, Agent Gibbs. You'll be given copies of all the reports, and you can have your guy double-check anything he wants once we can turn the body over to you. Canadian law requires us to do the autopsy here, first.'

'Ok. Witness statements?'

'We've got copies ready for you. And you're welcome to interview anybody you like after you've read them. We'd prefer you wait until tomorrow morning, though.'

'Why?'

'The banquet was scheduled for this evening, and they've turned it into a memorial for Midshipman Peters. Most of the kids are pretty shaken up, especially the ones who knew him well at the Academy. Unless something in one of the written statements sets off alarm bells, it would be better for them if you could keep the routine questions 'til the morning, and let them attend the memorial.'

'You've let them stay together?'

'We separated them until we took their initial statements. But since there's no evidence of foul play, we had to consider them witnesses rather than suspects. We couldn't just put four dozen kids in isolation cells, Agent Gibbs.'

'No, I suppose not. Alright, let us get started on those witness statements and we'll get back to you if we have any questions.'

'Of course.'

'One more thing. We'll want to attend that memorial. If anyone is acting strangely, we want to know about it.'

'Not a problem. It starts at 1900. You're welcome to use this office until then. They've prepared rooms for you in the guest quarters. I'll have someone take you there to freshen up and then show you where the mess is. 1800 ok?'

'Fine. Thanks.'

'Sure thing. I'll be just next door if you need anything. The phone's on the desk; dial 9 for an outside line. The building's wireless so you should be able to get online with your own computers; let me know if there's a problem.'

The guy from the Canadian Special Investigations Unit left the room as Gibbs took the stack of witness statements from the desk and handed half to Tony.


	5. Chapter 5

There wasn't much of interest in the witness statements, just multiple versions of 'I didn't notice anything unusual until Peters collapsed, and then all hell broke loose.' Gibbs decided he wanted to speak to the kids who had been standing closest to Peters, but there was nothing that couldn't wait until morning. By 1855 they had been taken to their rooms, had tidied up and changed, and were on their way into the dining hall where the banquet/memorial was to be held.

They were seated at the head table with the RMC faculty who were in attendance, and the various American instructors who had made the trip with their students. A few of the academic faculty were civilians; everyone else was in dress uniform. Gibbs felt a moment's regret for not having his own with him, but quickly forced the thought to the back of his mind and focused his attention on observing the demeanour of the students arrayed at long tables set at right angles to the slightly raised platform where he sat.

The meal was quite pleasant, despite the circumstances. The usual rubber chicken was unusually edible, and Gibbs chatted with the people around him while keeping an eye open for anything unusual. But, aside from some scattered squawks of surprise from befuddled visitors when a toast was offered to the Queen, the evening passed without incident.

Tony, seated at the other end of the table in order to have a different vantage-point from which to observe the room, spent most of the evening flirting with the attractive history professor next to him. He was rewarded with some pleasant conversation that he hoped might lead to something more than conversation later in the evening.

As the banquet was winding down, he was working up to ask for her number. Just then a red-headed Lieutenant-Commander whom Gibbs had been eyeing all evening came over to speak with the historian, touching her lightly on the shoulder, the subtle gesture seeming to convey affection rather than merely a desire to get her attention.

'Have you had a chance to look at those invitation samples, Beth?'

'Not yet. I was going to do that tonight.' Turning to Tony, she introduced him to the new-comer and added 'Wedding plans are such a bitch.'

Tony struggled to keep a straight face and excused himself, hoping that the obvious scowl he was now getting from Gibbs would be sufficient explanation. He joined the older man by the door and both looked back somewhat wistfully at the couple, who were lingering over a second cup of coffee.

'They're getting married, Boss.'

'Well, I hope they do better than I did.'

With that, the thrice-divorced Gibbs led the way back to their rooms to compare observations.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony rolled his shoulders as he surveyed the options in the vending machines. It was only mid-morning, but he was starving and desperate for caffeine.

They'd already interviewed half a dozen midshipmen and a couple of Canadian cadets. They were pretty sure they had a suspect identified – a Canadian boy who looked barely old enough for high school, much less college, who was so nervous he couldn't answer a single question without stammering. At one point it had seemed like he was about to confess, but then he clammed up and refused to speak to them anymore. He definitely was hiding something.

But, until they had the autopsy report, there wasn't much else they could do, and Tony had finally persuaded Gibbs to take a break.

He was surprised how many of the candy bars available were things that he didn't recognise. And judging by the picture on the box, 'smarties' meant something other than those rolls of sugar pellets, here. He fished in his pocket for change, deciding to try one of the unfamiliar options. As he reached for the coin slot, a bright yellow wrapper caught his eye. _Oh, yeah... I've __got__ to get one of those for Gibbs_, he thought.

A few minutes later, Tony strolled into the office they were using, balancing coffee for Gibbs, a can of soda for himself, and half a dozen different chocolate bars. Seeing his boss's raised eyebrow, he tried to defend the variety as 'research.' When that failed, he simply pushed the yellow-wrapped prize across the table and cracked his can of Mountain Dew open.

'It's coffee-flavoured chocolate, Boss!' he explained unnecessarily.

He must have looked more pleased with himself than he thought, because Gibbs indulgently unwrapped the Coffee Crisp and took a bite.

'Well?'

'More your kind of coffee, DiNozzo. It's got sugar in it,' Gibbs mumbled around a mouthful of wafers. But, Tony noticed, he kept eating.

Tony started to sit down, then paused and emptied the change from his pocket onto the table, grumbling about the volume of it making it difficult to sit comfortably.

'The girl at the coffee shop only had one five and no tens, so she gave me a fist-full of these stupid dollar coins. I should have gone there _before_ hitting the vending machine,' he explained. 'But, she did explain why the Canadian dollar is called a 'Loonie.' Apparently that duck on the back is actually a loon. And these two-dollar coins are 'toonies' – you know, like 'two,' but rhyming with the loon thing.'

Gibbs rolled his eyes and gave Tony an unmistakeable 'get back to work' glare, which he ignored.

'And _this_,' he continued, vehemently stabbing at the back of a disconcertingly blue banknote, 'this is a hockey game, _on their frickin' money! _What is it with these people and the hockey?! You know that screaming we heard last night after the banquet? When you couldn't understand why 'lights-out' didn't seem to mean anything here? _That_ was cadets watching a hockey game! Apparently their COs let them keep watching it, when it went into overtime, because Toronto was playing Montreal and that's apparently some kind of big deal...'

'It's an old rivalry,' a voice behind him explained, making Tony jump. 'Think of it as the equivalent of the Yankees playing the Mets, then add in the language difference. Of course, the Leafs haven't won the Cup in anyone here's lifetime, and the Habs aren't much better these days...'

'Habs?'

'The Montreal Canadiens.'

'Huh? That doesn't make any s... ow! Getting back to the case, Boss.'

Lt. Waters chuckled, handing a sheaf of papers to Gibbs.

'There actually _isn't_ a case, Agent Gibbs. That's the autopsy report. Your midshipman died of natural causes. Brain aneurism.'

Gibbs scanned the topsheet of the report, nodding slightly.

'But, what about that cadet who was acting like he'd done it? What was his name? Lafontaine?' Tony asked, stifling a yawn and hoping that Gibbs didn't notice. He reached for his soda.

'Agent Gibbs told me about your concerns about him, Agent DiNozzo, so I spoke to him again. Apparently Midshipman Peters called Cadet Lafontaine a derogatory name, referring to his Métis heritage, and Lafontaine responded by telling him to drop dead.'

'So, he threatened him, and...'

'Well, it was more of a suggestion than a threat, Agent DiNozzo. Nothing that we haven't all said at one point or another. But, when Peters actually _did_ 'drop dead' an hour or so later...'

'Lafontaine felt guilty as hell...'

'Exactly, Agent Gibbs. But, it doesn't look like there's a suspicious death to investigate.'

Tony yawned again, and this time Gibbs shot him an irritated look.

'I'm sorry! The crazy hockey fans kept me awake! I'm _trying_, here, ok?!' he protested, reaching for the soda again.

'You know there's no caffeine in that, right?'

Tony blinked, looking between the Mountain Dew in his hand and Lt. Waters, a look of sheer confusion on his face.

'Canadian food regs require that all caffeinated beverages have to be brown. Mountain Dew could either be green, or have caffeine in it, but not both. They chose the green.'

Tony slammed the can down on the table and threw his hands up in the air.

Gibbs didn't bother trying to conceal his amusement.

Tony let himself tune out while the other two men made arrangements for transporting the midshipman's body back to DC. Ducky would probably insist on double-checking the findings, but it didn't seem likely that he'd find any serious problems. At least he'd be going home soon, he thought, and mentally began planning what 'treats' to bring back for Tim and Ziva. Then, suddenly hearing his name, he realised that he probably should have been listening.

'Uh... what?'

'An exchange between NCIS and the Special Investigations Unit, DiNozzo. What do you think?'

'Uh... can we do that, Boss? I mean...'

'Why not? We've already got a Mossad liason officer working in DC, and JAG had an Australian working with them a few years ago. Canada's a closer ally than either of those. Might be a good idea to build closer relations with them...'

'Especially with the number of your deserters who think we'll let them hide out here, since we put up with the draft dodgers during the war in Vietnam. Of course, this crop is conveniently forgetting that _they_ weren't drafted...'

Tony's face must have betrayed what he was thinking, because Gibbs burst out laughing.

'Don't worry, Tony, I wasn't suggesting leaving you here. We can talk about it with Vance once we get home, find someone who wouldn't mind being posted in Ottawa for a while. It'll have to be some other team, anyway – probably not a good idea to have more than one person on a team who isn't an American.'

Tony let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and nodded, mumbling something about the plan sounding like a good idea (as long as he wasn't involved, he added in his own mind). They said their farewells to Lt. Waters and headed back to the guest quarters to pick up their stuff.

Passing a window and glancing out at the endlessly falling snow, Gibbs nudged Tony into a faster pace.

'C'mon, DiNozzo... we've still got to dig out that thing masquerading as a car.'


End file.
